John Creasey - Stars For The Toff

“She will indeed.”

“What about—what about the girl?”

“That depends on how deeply she’s involved.”

“She isn ’ t involved,” Fraser said. “She’s an innocent tool in the hands of that infernal woman. Mona’s a natural clairvoyante; sometimes she really can see into the future, and the Melinska woman uses her to win her victim’s confidence before she steps in and wrings every penny out of them. If I can convince you of this, will you help Mona? And give up Madam Melinska’s defence?”

Rollison nodded.

“Michael, don’t trust him,” Jane called out.

“I don’t see what else we can do,” said Fraser. “If Mrs Abbott’s dead then we really are in trouble and we’ll need someone to get us out of it. Rollison, Madam Melinska is a confidence trickster on a big scale. She takes nothing for her readings, but by conning her clients into giving her large sums of money which she tells them she’ll invest on their behalf, she makes a fortune. She daren’t admit she has any money now because this would give the game away—so she’s relying on credulous fools—I mean good-hearted people—to put up whatever she needs for her defence. It’s all there.” He waved a hand towards the brief-case. “Mrs Abbott has it all down in black and white.”

Rollison frowned. “Why did you steal this “evidence” from Mrs Abbott? And how did you know Mrs Abbott had it?”

“I knew because she told me about it. Oh yes, I used to know the Abbotts quite well, and when Mrs Abbott came to London she looked me up. I lived in Bulawayo for some years, I—I was engaged to the Abbotts’ niece, Mona Lister. But then Mona left home and got herself involved with this Melinska woman, and somehow things started going wrong between us. Another reason I’d like to get my own back.” Fraser added wryly. “Mrs Abbott was so upset, both about Mona and her husband—” He paused. “You know about Abbott’s suicide?”

Rollison nodded. “Yes, I heard about it. Carry on.”

Fraser frowned. “Where did I get to? Oh yes, Mrs Abbott was so upset that she decided to collect sufficient evidence to prove that Madam Melinska was a fraud. And she collected it. But I was afraid of what she might say about Mona—when Mona left home and went to live with Madam Melinska Mrs Abbott turned completely against her, she seemed to hate the girl as much as Madam Melinska—and I was worried in case she implicated her in Madam Melinska’s swindles.”

“So you persuaded Ted to steal the evidence,” Rollison finished for him.

“Yes, I stole it, but I didn’t kill the woman,” insisted the man in the chair. He was looking better now. “I tell you the flat was empty.”

Rollison said: “You may have a lot of trouble proving that. Did you see anyone else near the flat?”

“No one I recognised.”

“Lucifer Stride, for instance?” Rollison suggested.

He expected the name to cause something of a sensation, but the two men took it without blinking.

“Oh, Lucy ,” Ted said derisively. “ He wasn’t there.”

“How well do you know him?” asked Rollison.

“He’s my brother—half-brother actually,” said Michael Fraser impatiently. “I gave him a job in the office here for a few months, but it didn’t work out. He certainly wouldn’t have anything to do with killing Mrs Abbott. He might ask for a little— more than a little— financial support but—oh, I’m sorry if I sound cold-blooded,” Fraser interrupted himself, “but my brother and I don’t have much in common. All the same, he wouldn’t hurt a fly, and as for murder —well, you can certainly rule him out. Rollison— will you help us expose Madam Melinska?”

“Yes—if she’s guilty,” said Rollison.

“We can’t afford to pay—”

“If Madam Melinska has fooled me I won’t deserve any payment,” said Rollison. He was aware of a growing uneasiness, a fear that these men might be right about the woman whom his Aunt Gloria trusted so implicitly.

He was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. Fraser hesitated, glanced at his watch in surprise, then picked up the receiver. A moment later, in even greater surprise, he said: “It’s for you, Rollison.”

As far as Rollison was aware the only person who knew that he might be here was Olivia Cordman.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Welcome Home

It was not the Features Editor of The Day, it was Jolly. The first syllable of his man’s voice warned Rollison that all was not well, and he steeled himself to receive bad news.

“Miss Cordman advised me where you might be, sir. I’m sorry to bother you, but I think you would be well-advised to come home immediately.”

“Why?” asked Rollison.

“The—ah—police are in possession,” Jolly told him.

“ What? ”

“They are in truth, sir. I tried to communicate with Mr Grice, but he is said to be out of town.”

“What are they doing?” inquired Rollison.

“Searching most extensively, sir. However, I am less concerned with the attitude of the police than with another situation which I think you should see for yourself.” Hurriedly, he went on: “Would you care to speak to Chief Inspector Clay, who is in charge here, sir?”

“Just tell him I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Rollison said.

He rang off on Jolly’s “Very good, sir.”

He was quite sure that Jolly would have told him more but for Clay’s presence. Rollison knew the man slightly—a shrewd and patient detective, but with little imagination and an unyielding faith in the rule book—exactly the type of man whom Grice would second to an investigation into his, Rollison’s, activities.

All three members of Space Age Publishing, Limited were watching him; his apprehension must have sounded in his voice. He looked at each in turn, and then said:

“Jane, let me have your own and the men’s home addresses and telephone numbers—I may want to get in touch with you. Fraser, I’d like you to send me a written report stating everything you know about Madam Melinska.” He turned to the man the others had called Ted. “What’s your surname?”

“Jackson.”

“I’d like you to send me a report of all your movements when you visited Mrs Abbott, everything you noticed, everyone you saw—a fully detailed description of exactly what happened at the flat.”

Jackson looked uneasy. “Do you think the police will get on to me?”

“They might.”

“You won’t tell them I was—”

“As long as you play ball with me I won’t tell the police anything,” Rollison said. He took a card from his pocket, with his name—The Honourable Richard Rollison, O.B.E.—and the Gresham Street address on one side, and a pencilled sketch of a top hat, a monocle, a cigarette and a bow tie on the other, and handed it to Fraser. Once, this had been used as a form of psychological terrorism, a melodramatic threat— The Toff ’ s on the trail. There were still times for melodrama, he believed; this might be one of them.

Picking up the brief-case with one hand and taking the slip of paper Jane held out to him with the other, he walked out of the room and across the outer office, leaving the three members of Space Age Publishing, Limited staring after him. Unlocking the passage door, he stepped outside. The automatic self-service lift was still working, and a small door in the large doors of the building had not yet been locked. Rollison stepped out, cautiously.

No one was in the street, but that did not mean that the police weren’t at either end, watching; or that the men who had killed Charlie Wray and attempted to kill Lucifer would not be lurking close by. He turned towards the Strand. The brief-case must not be taken to the flat while the police were there, nor must it be taken anywhere the police might search. His club, for instance. Hailing a taxi, he went to Charing Cross station, left the brief-case in a locker, pocketed the key and looked about cautiously, but no one appeared to be paying him any particular attention.